Gay Erotic Stories

I wait anxiously for him to come tonight. It has been a week since I last saw him. He told me then that I needed more time to recover. I complained, but it did little good. I have been waiting for the last three nights to no avail. Tonight, though, I am sure. After so many nights of disappointment, I cannot say why I am convinced, but I am. The bedroom window is open. The screen is removed. Tonight I will ask to do it on my bed. I am tired of the shower. I don’t care about the mess. I purchased a plastic mattress cover and cheap new sheets. We will do it in a real bed tonight.

I will throw the sheets away when we are done. My mother will never know. Since I graduated from high school last year, she has been after me to get a job or start college. Why should I? We sure don't need the money. Dad left us both fixed for life. He may have been a lousy businessman, but at least he knew the value of insurance. He also knew how much easier a 45 in the mouth is than a day in bankruptcy court. Why can't she give a nineteen-year old time to get his shit together? Why work at all? Not with my new gig.

It is now three A.M. I can hardly stand the wait. I pinch my left nipple and caress my rock hard cock. I pick at the faint scabs on my neck. It is amazing how small they are and quickly they heal. I wish they did not. I would parade them for the world to see, if I could. But that would end it. He would never come back if I breathed even a single word. He would know it, too. That's another mystery. I wouldn't have to tell him, he would just know.

I hear the faintest rustle, and then he crouches on the sill of my second story bedroom window. There is no smoke, no eerie music. One minute he is not there. Then he is. His dark hair is a little long. His eyes are green. I shouldn't be able to see that in this light, but I can. He wears the only outfit I have ever seen on him: a loose silk shirt open nearly to the naval and tight black jeans. He has, of all things, a gold cross dangling from a chain around His neck. I reach out. He drops to the floor and pads silently to my bed. I pull back the sheet and show him the plastic. He smiles and nods. We will stay here tonight.

He sits on the bed and places his lips on the hollow of my neck. A shudder runs through me. My cock takes a leap. But it is only a kiss, a tease. His lips wander down my chest and pause at the nipples. He takes one after another in his teeth and I moan. His long slender tongue slides down my abs until it reaches the pouch of my thong underwear. He snuffles between my legs like a dog. Then he takes the waistband in his teeth and tears the thin undergarment away. I spread slightly in response.

He takes a long slow lick from just above the asshole between the eggs, along the shaft and ending with a flick at the crown. My tool leaps in anticipation and I whimper. He is playing with me. He does this better than anyone I have ever been with. He takes my tool in his mouth and works it slowly into the back of his throat. When the head reaches the back, he opens without either of us pushing. The muscles of his throat massage the head drawing my juices forward, forward. I grab his jet-black hair and hang on for all I'm worth. I fight to stop the flow. I grit my teeth and tears come to my eyes with the strain, but he draws me ineluctably out. Against my will, I burst forth into his mouth. He swallows hungrily.

What is this? A blowjob--of course--a five star blowjob, but still only a blowjob. Why? He has never given me a blowjob before. I have never wanted one from him. Will this be all tonight--a fucking blowjob? Perhaps he thinks I am still not strong enough for more. I am though. I know I am. He propels himself forward until we are face-to-face and groin-to-groin. I feel his hard cock through his jeans. Mine is going limp. He pushes away until his arms are fully extended and regards me carefully. My color is much better he tells me. It will be safe. He looks at me with unalloyed lust. No man, however much he wanted to fuck me, has ever looked at me quite that way. My cock responds by rising from its own grave.

I know then that we will do it after all. I smile. I ask a favor. Does he have to use the throat? I want his cock in my mouth this time. I want to catch at least a portion of the torrent. You will be a mess, he tells me. We will both be a mess. I do not care. I will clean us up. He considers for a moment and nods. There are exquisite veins in the groin he tells me. He quickly strips the shirt and pants from his long body. For all the pleasure it gives me, I would love that body even if it were fat and misshapen. But it is, in fact, a beautifully proportionate bundle of lean maleness. The porcelain skin gives it the look of an Italian Renaissance statue. But no Victorian could construct a fig leaf to cover the raging weapon that thrusts out from the hips.

He lies next to me in 69 position. I immediately take his tool into my mouth. If I wait for him to start, I will be transfixed and unable to respond. I could swallow it whole. Eight inches is easy for me. But I choose not to. Instead I start to chew, confident that I cannot break that preternatural skin. What man has never wanted to chew--really chew--on his partner's cock? He shows no pain, but moans slightly as I do it. He forces his face into my crotch. One of his cheeks rests against my balls. My left thigh caresses the other. He opens his mouth and clamps down on the inside of my thigh, right near the crease of the groin. Two needles pierce my skin. I feel the flow outward, from me to him. I am being drained. Exquisitely drained.

The fire, which in the past had moved downward from my neck to my loins, is now starting there, moving outward. It is more intense than ever before. I had thought that not possible. The meat in my mouth is hot now as well. We are both fevered to an extent that would be fatal in a man under normal circumstances. I am lightheaded and drifting into the state of perfect sexual unity I have become accustomed to, more intense than any mere blow job or ass fuck. I try to retain just enough self-awareness to capture the eruption to come. He begins to shudder and sucks now with a vengeance. I myself have been cumming since the first few seconds after the bite. I mangle his cock with my teeth and clutch his ass tightly. With a soft roar the liquid roars into my mouth. I drink it down but I am not fast enough. It gushes out my mouth and all over my face and his crotch. The liquid has the taste of spunk, but a lot more as well. Chief among the others is the metallic taste of blood.

I cannot maintain my separateness anymore. My jaw goes slack. The effluent drains from my mouth as fast as it is pumped in. He and I are in fugue. Images flash though my mind. Running naked through the woods. Being chased by dogs. Aroused by the sigh of bare throat. Bit after bite after bite. Man after man after man. Then an image of me. In the park--vulnerable and hot. Hotter, even, than I think I am on my best days. Quite the slut. An exchange of money; a move to the bushes. A look at my own throat through his eyes. The feel of my own cock through his hands. The first bite. Then this…

I awake cradled in his arms. He is wiping the bloody cum from my face. When he sees my eyelids flutter, he kisses me. He tells me that he lost control. It has been centuries since he killed anyone accidentally. And if it had been me, … Well, I knew how he felt about me, didn’t I. But I would be one of you then, I say. That would be fucking great! No, he smiles sadly, it doesn’t work that way. Too many Bela Lugosi and Christopher Lee movies. I would be dead, just as if I slit the vein in my groin myself. How then? How do I become like him? By drinking his blood, as in "Interview of a Vampire"? Didn’t I just did get a healthy dose of his blood, he says. The acids of my stomach will digest it, just as it does the blood of a cow when I eat a steak.

I rise and go into my bathroom. I clean the bloody mess from my face and fill a bucket with warm water. I return to the bed and begin swabbing his body of the congealing crimson gel. The discharge that I could not contain or swallow is all over his groin. My own cum is in his hair. I dab at it and pull it out. I take a comb and gather the goo that is embedded more deeply. He grasps my hand and kisses it. When I am done, he picks me up and carries me to the window. He slings me over his shoulder and scrambles out into the warm summer night and up onto the roof. I love this part. We lay naked, looking up at the stars.

Does he miss the sun, I ask. No, he says. I have all these suns. He gestures broadly at the sky. Most are larger and more magnificent than the pathetic candle that lights the dayside of the earth. They are just farther away. Besides, he can stand daylight for brief periods. He can walk around for hours on a cloudy day and for minutes at a time in the winter when its rays are weak. Even in the summer, he can dash between buildings with little more to show than a bad sunburn. If he has just fed, he can last even longer. A day at the beach would kill him. The desert sun would finish him within an hour. But he still wouldn’t go up in smoke like in a bad movie. It would look like a case of heatstroke.

He has told me similar things on other nights. A wooden stake through the heart would kill him, but so would a metal or plastic one. For that matter, so would a hollow point bullet. His entire metabolism, especially the surreal healing aspects, requires the rapid movement of enormous quantities of blood rapidly throughout his body--through veins and other passages that don’t even exist in my body. Bullets or knives elsewhere would damage him, but usually he could clamp down the bleeding by applying an internal muscular tourniquet to the vessel. Within hours, the wound would heel. Severing his head would kill him of course. Immolation would as well. But as far as he knows, no human disease would affect him. He can feel the individual microbes and set his immune system against them at first appearance. The same with cancers. Tired, old cells are sloughed off and replaced by fresh, young ones. All this powered by the blood he ingests nightly.

Six months ago, he found me tricking in the park. After graduating from high school, I discovered that I could earn more money selling myself than I could at any day job. Since I wasn’t old enough for the bars, the park was the place to find clients. I loved it immediately. It gave me a sense of tremendous power over men. Some were pathetic middle-aged men, sneaking out on their wives. Others were aging faggots who could no longer get a decent stud to give them a second glance. Some, however, were just guys with more money than time: executives or professionals who didn’t have the time to cruise the bars (or couldn’t afford to be seen there). For them, paying for a fuck was like paying to have the grass mowed. It saved time for more important things. They were the best. A few had taken me on business trips. I would wander around some exotic city while they made their deals. Then they would wine, dine and fuck me (or I them) all night long. It was a decent life. It was more than that. I had a short window where I could do this. I would make the most of it.

When he approached me in the park, I judged him to be a successful artist or musician. Jackpot! I’m going to be paid to do this hot hunk! Then he pulled me into the bushes and stripped down. (He always does that because of the mess.) I followed suit and he pulled me to him. He toyed with me for a moment then bit down without warning. My life was never the same afterward. I still hit the park for spending money, but plain sex is boring now. Repeat clients are telling me that I am not the same anymore. Jaded or something. Well, they got that right.

Staring at the stars, tonight, I ask him how he feeds when he is not with me. He says that he must feed once a day to maintain his body in good condition. He has a dozen acolytes. (That’s what he calls them.) On most, he feeds once a week. Some, only once a month. Me, as often as he can get away with. I am the new one. I am his current fixation. Wednesdays is poker night. He feeds on the entire table, a bloody banquet. The poker group is a bunch of scientists and doctors from the university. They are helping him find out exactly what he is, why he has his powers and his weaknesses. They found that his sperm contains enzymes that insert bits of DNA into other human cells in a test tube. In their tests, the cultured cells take on the same characteristics as his. They can survive, though, only in a continuously refreshed bath of blood. His entire metabolism is powered by the direct conversion of blood into cellular energy. He runs through all the blood in his body in a little more than a day.

How old is he, I ask. Very old is all he will say. He looks about 30. I don’t want to grow old, I tell him. I want to stay as I am now. I fear the day when I will go to the park and no one will choose me. I fear more the day I must go with money in my pocket to give to some young tramp for a little head. It is long way off, he assures me. I don’t care. I feel as perfect as I ever will be. Could he make me like him, a creature of the dark that never ages? It is dangerous, he says, nine out of ten acolytes die in the attempt. He has successfully made only three like himself in all the centuries of his existence, and two of those turned out badly in the end.

How would he do it? It’s simple. He only needs to fuck me while he feeds on me. As he draws my blood from a vein, he would replace it with his own bloody cum up my ass. The bloody sperm would be absorbed through the thin tissue of my rectum, and it would permeate my body, adding their essential strands of DNA to every one of my cells. The sperm would live in my blood, multiplying and continuing to repair and build new structures. But if I could not absorb his juices properly, I would die. Most did. He didn’t know why. No one did. Maybe some don’t absorb the new fluid fast enough. Others seem to have a severe adverse reaction. His poker group was working on it.

But if, if he did it to me and if I survived, would that be the end of us? Can one of his kind feed off another? We can, and it is terrific. But it is a zero sum gain, he says. One weakens while the other grows stronger. If they feed off each other simultaneously, they are both as famished as when they started. If two feed together off the same human, however, they both gain. Sometimes one will feed off the human and the second off the first. It is better than anything I have yet experienced, he says.

I want that! I beg to take the chance. The sky in the east is lighter now. He looks down at me for a long time. His skin, no longer porcelain, is as tanned as any Santa Monica surfer’s. He asks for my blood type. A-positive, I say, but why would that matter? He won’t be back for six months. He claims he has left me too weak. Get strong, he says. Get very strong. He picks me up, returns me to my room, gathers his clothes and disappears.